


At Midnight

by Rayac



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Dark Jareth (Labyrinth), Darker Sarah, F/M, Possessive Jareth (Labyrinth)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29316681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayac/pseuds/Rayac
Summary: He comes at midnight; each and every midnight, though not a two alike. And there is nothing she can do to stop him. Still, she tries. Eventually, she succeeds.
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	At Midnight

_Sometimes there is no darker place than our thoughts, the moonless midnight of the mind._

\- _Dean Koontz_

* * *

He comes at midnight; each and every midnight, though not a two alike. And there is nothing she can do to stop him.

Still, she tries.

She ignores him when he first whispers in her ear. His are shapeless murmurs that urge her to return; to accept his offer of love and fear. They hint at more. She seals her mind from fantasies of what could have been and what could still be. She pretends he is errant wind: hissing and curling and born only to bluster. But he is a typhoon that razes walls and fells kingdoms. He knows hers will yield. So, he recedes with the tide and vows his midnight return. For he will have her: mind, body, and soul.

She looks away when he next appears, though not soon enough. For she sees him as she last remembered: shades of feathers and snow that alongside the sheen of crystal, momentarily blind her from reason. And when he speaks this time, she listens. She hears insistence and inevitability, and each word nettles itself into her skin. She scratches, but even when she bleeds, she cannot pry them out. He smiles as if he knows. And when he leaves, he cloaks her pain in plumage. It does not soothe her.

She knows only sandalwood, smoke, and spice. It is everywhere and nowhere, permeating without form. She cannot breathe with it, but as it drowns her, she cannot breathe without it. So, she takes it in and she hates herself for it.

She cups her ears when he is nothing but a song. Still, she hears it: a beautiful, haunting melody that ghosts through her fingers and ripples in her mind. Pricking at memories of her hand in his and his other, tight on her waist. Twirling through masks and magic and majesty, but his eyes never leaving her own. He carried a smirk that could shatter diamonds as he leaned closer. But this time, there were no chimes to break the spell, and she cannot force the urge to meet him from her mind. So, she leans. But there is nothing there but the song and the imprint of his victorious smile.

She closes her mouth, but somehow, sweet peaches are already on her tongue. And when she looks down, she sees her bitemarks in the soft flesh. It is cloying but she craves it all the more, and when she looks again, there is nothing but the pit.

She shudders at his touch - both feather-soft and flaming - when he appears behind her. Long, graceful fingers caress her arms, pulling her into his chest, and he kindles more than fear. And then he spins her, and his hand tilting up her chin parries off whatever denial she still carries. He claims his prize, but the light press of lips as he fades away leaves her wanting. And as she claws out desperately, he knows that he has won, and she was lost.

For mortal men would no longer turn her eye. Their kind words or grand promises would ring hollow. Nothing in her world would smell of him, and it would be suffocating. Common song would scratch and blister. And no man-made feast of food and drink would sustain her.

She would call him. And instead of her midnight, he would be her day and night.

* * *

She does not call him when she wakes at dawn.

His name is a blight on her soul that she pledges to cure. For when he kissed her, she finally remembered her midnights. And in memory, he is nothing more than an agonizing temptation.

But when she sits for breakfast, she realizes what he has done; what _she_ has done in her lost midnights. Eggs turn to ash on her tongue and coffee is a bitter burn that no amount of heavy cream can numb. She remembers peaches, then. And though she knows not what mortal fruit will do, she goes to the store. Filling her cart with peach jams and yogurts and juices and the fruit itself.

She bites into a peach and swallows easily. For she may have bent, but she will not yield.

Her car radio is a steel blade against glass; scratching and curdling in broken rhythm. She turns it off as she drives to work. It is a long ride, made longer by the echo of her vengeful thoughts, but still, she does not call. For independence and free will are the only music she needs. When she cannot stand the silence, she hums to herself, though his song is the only one she remembers.

When the risk of song is great, she wears earplugs. She learns to thrive in silence.

Even on the clearest days, she struggles to breathe. Wind chokes and sears and fills her lungs with soot. Though, she sees and feels no fire, and knows the smoke she craves is his. So, she fills her home with burning incense. And when their smoke still clouds her breath, she toasts saffron, cardamom, and clove alongside. The scents pale in comparison, but she fends off unconsciousness. She spends the following day searching for a perfume of sandalwood, and she drenches herself in it until the air clears.

She carries it everywhere and smells nothing but the hint of him. She tells herself it is enough.

Her boyfriend senses her agony and thinks it is his failures. He makes her promises she doesn't hear and elegant meals she won't taste. She tells him she is fine, but her smile spoils the lie. For it is strained with the weight of midnights and no matter how much peach liquor she drinks, she cannot force herself to kiss or make love to him. His mere touch blisters skin and she knows no balm of his can calm it.

So, she ends her masculine chase. In times of desperation, she seeks the company of women. And still, she does not call. For her will was as strong, and her kingdom as great. And she refuses to give him power over her.

But he senses it, and though he had been confident he would no longer be relegated to dreams, he returns again at midnight.

This time, she is ready.

* * *

He is cloaked in leather and shadows that twist blue-black in a silent wind. Just as when he first came to her. But instead of his usual mirth, she sees turmoil and agitation.

"You did not call," he says stiffly—as if he does not comprehend how she could resist.

"I did not," she confirms. And she knows he hears the echo because she sees his teeth clench. She feels his magic sizzle and pop, and his irritation is invigorating. She stands tall as she steps towards him. Resolute. For she will best him: body, mind, and soul. "I'm not a child anymore, and I'm not interested in games."

As he follows her lead, his is a pained curiosity. "Then what does interest you?"

Oh, how she knows that curiosity; it is the same she once held for him. Pained by the beauty and mystery and _magic_ of him. But no longer. Still, if she is to vanquish him completely, he must believe hers continues. And in dreams at midnight - as he has shown - anything is possible. So, she hides one hand behind her back to test her theory. When a twist of fingers proves it true, she takes one gloved hand with her other, pulling. And then she is encased in sandalwood, smoke, and spice once more. "Undo what you have done," she whispers, inches away. "Then, I will show you."

There is hesitation written in his purse of lips. On a creature of confidence and cunning, it is an anomaly, yet it strangely compliments the silence. But, she is both his strength and weakness, and he relishes her hold on him as he tries to see her mind. The flecks of gold on green tell him nothing, though their pull spurs his answer. For if she will not call – will not play his game – he will have her here, and then, she truly will be lost. He nods minutely, then hovers closer to her lips. "But you will give me more this midnight."

" _Deal_." And her smile is feral as she seals the bargain. Because while he tried to defeat her with senses, she knows he will be felled by desire. For he has no power over her.

And she can fracture senses, too.

She savors him, at first. Because despite all the agony he'd wrought, the taste and feel of his lips on hers sends a hot frisson down to her core. His curse, she thinks, still tethering her senses to him until they become one. So be it. She has earned this pleasure and far, far more. She knows she tastes of peaches; he is bourbon and honey, both aged and ageless. Her tongue urges his mouth to part fully and he yields (for how could he not?) to her insistence. But she sees a different sort of inevitability than feathered murmurs. Now, it soothes her. But it does not heal all wounds. So, she pulls away, nipping as she goes, and the sound he makes - ragged and wanting - proves she is his addiction.

She whispers next. Hers are lies that promise everything and mean nothing, though only she knows the truth. But it is all he has dreamed for infinite midnights: to hear her pledge her love and fear and obedience. And as she tenderly cups his cheek, he believes she has bound herself to him until death. She smiles because he also believes it is forever.

She cannot sing, so she hums. His song is still the only one she remembers, but she also thinks it is the only one he desires to hear. She knows she is right when she feels his hand at her waist and his other in her own, and for a moment, they sway in an easy rhythm. But, there is another rhythm to find and she is tired of this game.

At last, she reaches. She trails a hand through corn-silk hair, grasping as if falling, and all the while sealing his body to hers. She wishes for silks and downy pillows, and as she knew they would, they appear. And then she is pushing him backward and tearing at clothes until she hears the hiss of his pleasure as she finds him. He is beautiful and possessive and _ready_ , but only the last relieves her because she knows her long nightmare is ending. She too is ready; the wet heat another reminder of his agonizing hold on her. But no longer. She opens for him and he takes her, thrusting in and out until finally, he finds his release, and she remembers other songs. When she returns her hand to his cheek, he is cold and his scent is suffocating. When she tastes him, he sours on her tongue. And when she pulls back to find his eyes, all she sees is her freedom.

It was time.

She untangles herself easily as she readies her lines. He is groggy with pleasure and it will be his downfall. Because while he may have impaired her senses, he did not claim her mind, and when she could do nothing else, she read. And she learned another way to make him suffer.

Vengeance by iron.

"I wonder," she muses, pushing her dark hair behind her shoulders so he is distracted from her hands, "was it everything you thought it would be?"

His chuckle curdles blood. "Oh, _Sarah_ ," he croons. "You are so much more."

The hand behind her back creates salvation as she leans over him again, whispering one final time into thin lips. "Not me; _life_."

When she wakes, victory stains her fingers. And she knows he will no longer come at midnight.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is...very different from my normal fare, but writing a darker tale has been on the bucket list. Sort of an anti-Valentine, but with a darker Jareth, this was the only outcome my muse believed Sarah would tolerate. It was a fun challenge, but I'm not sure it's a genre I'll frequent. We'll see! There's a much more lighthearted Valentine one-shot coming in the next week, first.


End file.
